In the late fall of 1942, almost a year past the Sunday morning attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, Veronica Conlon Devine — still lovely, dark-haired and green-eyed, widowed at 49 years on earth — sat with her 10-year-old son on her lap, watching a comic opera being played out before us.

A big collection of chickens of all breeds, strayed from the collection of garden master Sister Amelia at an aging convent across the street, had gotten free. They were in our yard now, pecking away, along with neighbors, children, young nuns, and firemen from the firehouse down the block, all trying to trap the frightened birds, and hoping to get a nod from the family on the porch.

It was that night when Veronica, with pencil in hand, bills before her on the table, and a prayer on her lips, closed her eyes on a world on fire and probably mumbled Hail Marys over and over.

I think maybe that was when she, weary of struggling, probably made a decision that would leave us all as characters in a story told again and again until it ends with me, the storyteller left behind to honor them.

This Mother’s Day tale gets told for the last time today, about a still beautiful 49-year-old woman, loved, cherished and protected from reality by a much older husband, a retired career naval officer who, after fighting two wars, looked up at the clouds, and simply and quietly dropped dead on a peaceful city street. Amen.

Now, on a cold morning when everything had grown too big to swallow, Veronica Conlon Devine had her chicory coffee, fed me breakfast, put on her best dress and hat, put my clothes in an old suitcase, and, holding my hand so tightly I can still feel it, closed the door behind us. Yes. Just like that. That morning, she walked me up a series of alleys to an uncertain future, early enough so that the fireman, and Sister Amelia and her chickens, wouldn’t see us go.

This was the walk to a safe place owned by her widowed friend, Kate Diehl from our church, who had boys of her own away in the war. Kate had turned her home into a safe place for the young wives of servicemen training at nearby Jefferson Barracks, and one scared and lonely boy.

I learned through the years that after settling me there, my mother, with help from family and friends, grew stronger, tougher, and built a new life. One happy day she became a trainee nurse in Barnes Hospital overlooking the river, and eventually found her place in the world as a nurse in white cap, dress and shoes.

As we grew older together, Mom practiced her gifts and grew to be an honored nurse. At night she would bring home cake or cookies from the hospital kitchen, and we would talk about our day.

I have sweet memories of our late suppers together while listening to the radio at night. On my bed next to hers, I remember making up stories in the dark as I rubbed her head and aching feet until she fell asleep.

I still remember her whispering as she fell asleep, “you told me that one already, kid.”

And here I am, telling it one last time. If you still have a mother, young or old, go hug her now. She has a story to tell you. Do it and surprise her. Yes. Just like that.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.